Making Art
by Vash The Humanoid Sunshower
Summary: For Sherlockbbc fic prompt: Sherlock is actually a very talented artist. John only finds out when he finds Sherlock's folder of sketches of him: working, on a case, wearing a jumper. There are dozens of sketches of just John. S/J. FLUFF  with mild angst.


**Note:** I have not abandoned Matchmaker, Matchmaker! The second half of the scene hit some bumpy points which have mostly been resolved, so an update should be out shortly, I promise. But as sometimes happens, when looking over the Sherlockbbc_fic kink meme a prompt kind of took me over and made me write it in one night, and this fluffy one-shot is the result. I hope you like (and don't hate me too much for making the wait so long for the next chapter of Matchmaker...super apologies for that) Much thanks and love as always to Haylebopp who both Betad and Britpicked this in less than an hour. So much love!

**Prompt**: Sherlock is actually a very talented artist. John only finds out when he finds Sherlock's folder of sketches of him: working, on a case, wearing a jumper. There are dozens of sketches of just John.

**Warnings**: Ridiculous fluff and mild angst.

**Pairings**: Sherlock/John

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any incarnation and I'm not making money off of this.

.

**Making Art:**

.

Sherlock didn't keep sketchbooks. He drew on cheap computer paper, the sides of takeout menus and solved case files, on the unwritten sides of notes. It wasn't art. At best, it was copying: quickly and accurately rendering a subject in two dimensions. Since he was a small child, Sherlock had a talent for precision, and there was something clarifying about the scratch of pencil over paper. Before he had a name for the profession he would create, Sherlock saw the usefulness of images for documenting his observations. He practised turning his mind into a camera. He would choose a person, at first a teacher acquaintance or family friend and attempt to recreate them.

Mummy had caught him once, "Oh dear sweetie, that's Mr. Charleston, our driver, isn't it? You're so thoughtful. You captured the eyes just perfectly. And his forehead-"

"It's wrong."

"It's art, dear, it can't be wrong-"

"It's not art, it's an experiment. And it is wrong."

"It's lovely. All artists have to fight their insecurities. " Mummy ruffled Sherlock's hair. "Don't be shy. I'm sure Mr. Charleston will love his birthday present. Why don't we put it in a frame for him when you're finished?

After that, Sherlock performed his drawing experiments when he was supposed to be sleeping so nobody would see them. He improved. First he would give himself as much time as he liked to observe, but later he imposed limits. Thirty seconds. Fifteen. Five. Then drawing by touch. By deduction.

Generally, once Sherlock mastered a skill, like picking a lock or lifting a wallet, he would periodically practise to maintain the ability, but think little of it beyond that . The variables involved with sketching were complex enough though that they required constant honing, and through the years Sherlock found himself sketching without thought, especially when classes became dull, which was often.

Upon discovering one of Sherlock's sketches folded between the pages of his second year Chemistry text, Victor had declared it amazing. "Professor Donaldson, you got him exactly right. Nose like an Ace of Spades."

"Not exactly." Sherlock had taken the sketch and rolled it up between a loose fist. "The eyes aren't set correctly, and he has a more prominent jaw."

"But still," Victor's eyes were shining. "Can you do me?"

"I already did," Sherlock said. "Several."

"Can I see?"

"I burned them?"

"What? Why?"

"Once I can capture a subject, there's no point in maintaining the evidence. If you want an image of yourself, you'd do better to use a camera."

"That's not the point! Art, it's personal. You can tell things from art that you can't from a picture."

"Interesting," Sherlock tilted his head. "Like what?"

"Like..." Victor averted his gaze. "What the artist really thinks of someone."

"Well, this isn't art. And I've made no secret what I think of you. You're reasonably intelligent, attentive, sentimental, possessing of a sense of humour and illogically insecure in regards to your physical attractiveness."

"You think I'm attractive?"

"Of course. At least two of the people in that unnecessary study group of yours would definitely like something physical and-"

"But iyou/i think iI'm/i attractive."

"I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean," Sherlock said.

Victor took a step closer, the sharpness of his aftershave overwhelming. "Will you kiss me?"

"Yes...oh..." Sherlock's mouth was dry when their lips touched.

Sometimes when Sherlock woke, legs entangled with Victor and the sheets, he would want to take a pencil and scrap of paper and try to recreate the exact dapple of sunlight and shadow against the blunted angles of Victor's face. After the situation with Victor's father, when Victor withdrew from University and stopped returning calls, Sherlock tried. Like a camera, he replicated the measurements as accurately as his hard drive would allow, but when he finished, the images were lacking. It wasn't art. Still, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to destroy them.

When John chose to share the flat, Sherlock did a quick rendering on the back of a copy of an old case file. He forgot about it until the cabbie. Looking at the sketch again, the regularity of John's features, it couldn't have been more wrong. Sherlock tried again: the crease in John's brow when leaning over his laptop, the shine of his teeth, his face flushed and laughing after a difficult chase, the crinkle of fabric, John's hands balled into fists inside the sleeves of that appalling gray jumper.

Their first time was fuelled by adrenaline and months of unacknowledged need, and when Sherlock woke first, which he invariably did, his fingers itched for a pencil and scrap of paper to capture the sweep John's outstretched arms, the spider web of scar tissue over his shoulder, the fragile line of pale lashes over sun stained skin. He waited until John left for work, of course. The movement, the searching, the staring, the scratch of pen on paper, any of these things would have sent John's soldier reflexes into action, and besides, it was better John didn't know. It was pathetic, but when John left (even when Sherlock's intentions were good, nobody could stand him for long, it was inevitable) Sherlock wanted...no needed...a record. His attempts drifted through his daylight hours, each trial rendered irrelevant in comparison to the reality.

Sherlock kept them. Quick sketches torn off edges of newspapers, backings off advertisements and paid bills, an imperfect record but better than nothing. Sherlock hid these failed experiments with the sketches of Victor in an unlabelled file under the stack of old case files. When Lestrade had no cases, and John was out, and the quiet was so deep even the discordance of Sherlock's violin couldn't break it, he looked through the file.

A month into it, Sherlock's attempts at John overwhelmed the smattering of Victor. Sherlock found himself standing in an art supply store in front of a shelf of sketch pads while chattering students moved in an ebb and flow around him. The weights and textures weren't confusing. His studies of stationary had given Sherlock a good understanding of paper. Still he stood, two paces from the shelf, his fingers laced behind his back, unable to decide.

After an indeterminate time, a girl with a pink tinted Mohawk and a name tag reading Charlotte came over and asked, "Thinking of pencil work, charcoal, or trying your hand at watercolours?"

"Just pencil."

"There's no just about it." She grinned. A pair of silver C's hung from her ears. Nickname then. CC's history poured from her as pointed to various pads and discussed their features. Second year at university, parents divorced, amicable, two brothers and one stepsister. A penchant for fatty foods, the smell of chicken clung to her clothes but she'd washed her hands thoroughly, concern for the supplies greater than simple work caution. "This one's a bit more expensive and they say the paper holds a line better, but I'm just as happy with the-"

"No, thank you." Sherlock took a step back. "I'm not...I've wasted your time."

"It's five quid. If you don't like it, just return it for an exchange." She grinned. "One time offer."

"I only do occasional drafting, for my work. They're not art."

"Paper doesn't care what you do with it, or how often."

Sherlock had filled four pages of the pad when John found the file. Sherlock admitted it was entirely his own fault. He'd asked John for a case file, and too involved in his own deductions, Sherlock didn't realise John was rifling through the wrong pile until the sharp intake of breath.

John sat cross legged in front of the sofa, the file on his knees, his fingers resting on one of the pages. "These are-"

"Wrong." Sherlock jumped up, crossed the floor in three strides and reached for the file. "It's nothing. Inaccurate trials. I meant to destroy them." And now he would have to. Tickling pain ran through his stomach. He swallowed, nauseated.

"No!" John snatched the file away. "These are brilliant. I had no idea you could draw."

"Basic drafting is useful for my work. It's observation, visualisation and fine motor control. I've trained myself at it for some time. Imagine how tedious it would be to have to consult an artist every time I needed a rendering for my Irregulars to pass around. Besides, a police sketch artist, no matter how well trained, won't fully render the details as described. Or they would alter my description under the mistaken idea that I had exaggerated or forgotten things due to the stress of a situation. I've tested this."

"Of course you did." John's lips quirked upwards. "Well, I hope you weren't planning to pass this one," he flipped the file open to the topmost sketch, a nude—why hadn't Sherlock burned it in the sink like the other one-the wave of muscle over John's curled bicep as he lay on his side, the gentle curve of his stomach, the duvet twisted between his knees, "around to your homeless network."

"I'm not showing them to anyone. You should forget you saw them. Delete them. They're inaccurate and idiotic and I did far too many of them," like he was some kind of obsessive lunatic, which John surely thought, "but that's only because I'm trying to create an accurate record and couldn't get it right and-"

"They're amazing."

"What?"

John placed the file behind him and rose to his knees so that his and Sherlock's head were level. John said, "I had no idea you saw me this way."

"I...you're difficult. I think my...fondness for you interferes with my ability to create an accurate likeness." Sherlock's mouth was dry. "But I...enjoy trying to capture you. As frustrating as it is. You have too many expressions. Too many layers. It's never boring. I want to remember you, but these attempts, even if I rendered every moment, it wouldn't be enough."

When John kissed him, it was soft and tasted of salt. Sherlock tightened his grip; opening his eyes for a second, he watched John's eyelids flutter, the press of John's nose against Sherlock's cheek. They made love on the floor, toppling the remainder of the stacked case files in their desperation. The case, a simple affair of a missing ring that Sherlock had solved minutes ago, faded to sensation. The softness of John's hands, the smooth callouses of his fingers, the heat of his mouth, the maddening tickle of his teeth, sweetness, movement, need, release. John came soon after in hot thrusts over Sherlock's stomach. They lay, John draped over Sherlock, a hot, damp, quivering mess of light and shadow, bone and lipids, breath and tendon.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck. "Don't share this one with anyone." he said. "If your muse strikes you, I mean."

"What I do, it's not art."

"Idiot." John's laugh tickled over Sherlock's collarbone. "Of course it's art."

"No." Sherlock brought an arm over John's back. There were words for it, this hollow place just behind Sherlock's soft pallet, this unsettled feeling that inhabited his gut. "Normally, when I do this, I just recreate the subject, put the image to its proper use and delete it. But you're not so easily defined. You change. Constantly. There's always something different. It's..." Sherlock pressed his lips together and took a deep breath through his nose. He closed his eyes. "It's not me. If these idiot things in any way resemble art, it's you."

John shifted, sat up, cool air settling in the space where their skin had touched. "Sherlock?"

"Don't go." It was worse, it would be worse than Victor. It was worse for saying the words. For showing these insignificant things. "Sentiment, you know it's not my area. Delete it, all of this."

"I'm not going anywhere. Jesus, how could I after that? Why would I?" John took Sherlock's hands, pulled Sherlock up and drew him into a tight embrace. "You're wrong, though. About me."

"I will get it right, one day."

"Not that. The other, about art." His grip loosened and he pulled away just enough to tilt his head back to meet Sherlock's gaze. "If here's any art here, it's not me either," John said. "It must be us."

"Us?"

"Now kiss me." John's lips quirked. "And then you'd best solve this case, so you can kiss me again."

"Done," Sherlock said, and he did.


End file.
